Campaign and Conquest
by J1014826
Summary: Cato and Peeta have always been at opposite ends of the spectrum, trying to out-step the other. As the class campaign rolls around, the school presidency can fall either in the hands of Peeta or Cato. What was once an orderly campaign now turns into a savage conquest, one where people will get their cheap shots in, blackmail, and fight dirty. Who will come out on top? ;) CatoxPeeta
1. Chapter 1

Cato stared at the flyer posted on a pillar. Standing in the shade of the colonnade in the school courtyard, he flattened the flapping piece of paper against the concrete pillar with one hand so he could see what it read. On the 8x11, what caught Cato's eye the most was 'VOTE FOR PEETA' in bold, black letter. All the scrabble underneath that was crushed by that one-liner.

But what Cato ended up looking at was the picture of the guy printed on it. He had a wide, genuine smile elicited a perfect row of teeth. Even through the black-and-white rendition, Cato could tell that this man has clear, brilliant eyes.

"Cato, c'mon. You're going to miss your speech!"

After one last look, Cato lets go of the flyer and turns to face Marvel to catch up with him. There's a slight echo of Cato's feet pattering across the ground in the empty courtyard.

"Looking at the loser again? Why didn't you take that flyer down?" Marvel starts picking up the pace, more urgent than I am to get to the auditorium, where about five hundred juniors are packed in. Cato could just imagine what the auditorium looked like: dim, cloistered compared to the openness out here, sweaty, too loud, too crowded. For a second, Cato was grateful that he was outside in the quiet courtyard, which was just starting to bloom. The grass was finally going to be green again and white buds were marking their spots on tree branches. Every time a light breeze blew by, it carried the smell of the flowers in the garden, which was tended to by the Garden Club.

What Cato was most grateful for, however, was that he didn't have to fake it out here. He didn't have to look at his restive classmates with a fake smile plastered on, and Peeta Mellark sitting off to the side with his smug smile and attentive eyes.

"You know I can't do take down my opponent's property. Candidates aren't allowed to do that. That's unfair." Walking the same pace as Marvel, Cato fixes his navy and turquoise bow-tie. The smooth fabric kept on rubbing against a spot on the left side of his neck.

"Screw unfair. Peeta Mellark will do anything to win, and you know exactly that." Marvel gives him a little shove, and Cato chuckles uneasily. They tread across the lawn now, taking a shortcut to the auditorium. Cato lags behind when Marvel, his vice president, mentions Peeta negatively. The grass, freshly cut, left green streaks on his white shoes.

Cato didn't know what he meant, but he did know that that wasn't true. Peeta is not some Machiavellian, conniving, at-all-costs kind of person. He had enough knowledge on Peeta to at least conclude that, even though they have been on opposite ends of the spectrum ever since elementary school.

Cato was all platinum-blonde and icy-eyed. That along with his height and the broad plain of his chest and shoulders made anyone tentative to go up to him. Not only was he intimidating just from his stature, but also from the way he dressed too. He was given nothing but the best. Grey market watches, a pair of shoes for his sixteenth birthday worth more than a car, button-downs, tailored pants, and socks only made out of imported materials. After all, he was the son of a wealthy businessman who was at the top of a corporate chain.

But Peeta was completely different. He lacked Cato's barrel of a chest, and he was more _saturated_. He does not have Cato's blonde-white hair, but instead Peeta has neatly styled hair that reminded people of rich, golden wheat caught in the rays of a sunset. While approaching Cato is like approaching a mountain, Peeta is extremely easy to talk to.

"Peeta isn't like that," Cato calmly murmurs. "Just..."

He never finishes the sentence because he doesn't really know what Peeta is like. Almost eleven and a half years between them, and they've been at some sort of stand-off. It made sense though: what's a rich business tycoon's son at the top tier of the social ladder going to do with this easy-going kid in some non-exclusive social standing? Especially when everything they did was so calculated to outstep the other? There has been, no doubt, some kind of pressure pushing on the both of them, coming on all sides and never mitigating, not once in those eleven years. It's finally pushed them together to this one point, this one class-president election. This will set things next year when they will be both seniors.

It's like Marvel never even heard what Cato said; tugging Cato along, Marvel quickens his pace and they both make it to the auditorium.

Once inside, they take their marked seats at the side of the stage. Already, Cato is sweating, dampening the collar of his white shirt. He grabs the inside of his collar and detaches the fabric, which was sticking to his damp skin. Cato looks over to Marvel, and sees that he's all smiles. Good.

Unable to stop himself, Cato sizes up the competition too. It's just him and Peeta, the candidates whittled down to a final two. Peeta's leaning back with one arm on the back of his chair and casually talking with a teacher seated behind him. For a moment, Cato catches a glimpse of his poster-perfect smile.

The headmaster finally gets the junior class to quiet down. Headmaster Snow says a few words, but Cato is jostling his thigh and continues to fidget with the collar of his shirt. Clearly, Snow's words flew right past Cato.

The speeches start, signifying the last stretch of campaigning and voting, which will take at least three weeks.

Peeta is up first. When Peeta steps up, Cato ceases all motion. The auditorium grows quiet. There's a shuffle of notecards, the adjusting of the podium. Finally, he starts.

Every cell of Cato's body is focused so hard on Peeta, that it would be no surprise if he combusted under his hard concentration. Cato took in every gesture, every word that smoothly glided off of Peeta's tongue. He looked at his lips and how the words shaped them. His voice was too familiar, too friendly, too open and almost colloquial. At the podium, Peeta conducts himself with much ease and his words are starting to even affect Cato. Cato slowly starts to tense up; it frustrated him how easy and cogent he is.

Cato may not be as talented as Peeta is with words, but he had his speech drilled into him by his father. He remembers those late nights, and his father, over and over again, yelling, pacing the room, shaking his head. As quick as the memories came, Cato pushed them away.

When Peeta finished, Cato's concentration was broken and the muscles behind his eyes finally relaxed. As Peeta stepped down from the podium, Cato knew he was up. There was the loud applause that seemed to ricochet off of every surface in the large space, and suddenly Cato started to breathe shallowly. As the adulation for Peeta continued, Cato took a few moments to compose himself. After a few deep breaths and pulling out his notecards from his back pocket, he's ready. He steps up.

Cato lets one word flow after the other. As the rehearsed words are strung out, Cato reaches the end of his speech flawlessly. Thunderous applause seems to shake the well-lit, beautiful interior of the large room, and five-hundred exuberant bodies only add to the muffled, overheated and muggy atmosphere.

Next are the vice speeches, which only are meant to be short orations to appeal to the audience and support the running candidate.

Unable to stand both the physical and mental heat of the auditorium, Cato politely excuses himself.

He sidles off stage, quietly pads into the hallway, and finally goes back out to the courtyard. Cato can't help but be glad that this is going to be his second to last speech. His last one, of course, being his victory speech. There won't be any more longs nights of his father ruthlessly pushing him and shoving flashcards into his face for a while. And that's the best part. Not the fact that Cato delivered a speech without flaws, or when he was finally able to slake off his nerves as he picked up momentum in his words. The best part is the fact that his father will finally leave him alone.

He takes a few deep breaths while pressing his fingers to his temples. The green quad is open to him. Open for him to run around, open for him to ruin his shoes with more grass stains. The grass clippings still smell fresh and look shiny as the sun glints off of them. The vibrancy that splayed over the ground and met the colossal buildings of the school campus reminded him of the vacations Cato, his mother, and father use to take to Ireland. In fact, he could remember standing on top of a hill, watching the world turn green and alive before him. There was a dog circling a tree down below. His mother was calling Cato in to take a shower. His father was in the study, and he was still climbing the corporate ladder. Things were simple back then, and Cato stood on top of a green hill figuratively and perpetually when he was younger. And when he was younger, it was such a simple give and take between him and his father, whereas now it was so hard to meet his expec—

Suddenly, an arm snakes around his waist and he feels someone pull up close to him. Startled, Cato is shaken out of his thoughts and grips the arm wrapped around him. A soft breathe tickles his ear and a shock of blonde hair appears in the corner of his eye. Then, a familiar voice starts.

"So this is where you went."


	2. Chapter 2

Turning around, Cato looks at the person before him. Instantly, he recognizes the bright blonde hair and perky smile.

Glimmer. Of course.

Smelling like a combination of lipstick and something tropical and fruity, she rests her head on his shoulder.

"That was a really good speech, you know. I'm impressed." Giving a teasing tug on his hounds-tooth jacket, she smiles at him. Her green eyes, almost lucid in the sun, urge at something more playful.

"Thanks. Yeah, my dad really drilled that one into me." He tries to keep his voice light and forces out a fake laugh, but he feels like a brimming, boiling pot with a wooden spoon over the top.

Glimmer, either ignoring or truly unaware of Cato's discreet slip, continues, with one end goal in mind. "So are we going back inside?" Her words come off so innocently, but Cato knows her for who she really is. Even though they've only known each other for three years, coming from different middle schools, they were like magnets the moment they both entered the same high school. It's amazing how close they got in those short years, but what could anyone expect? Cato is gorgeous, Glimmer is a knockout, and they both have trust funds somewhere back east.

In one suave movement, she reaches up to stroke his hair and kiss his ear. Her breath lingered a little longer on his skin, tickling him and stirring a piece of blonde hair near the nape of his neck. His skin was a little damp from sweat, but it made Cato smell just that much more Cato.

"Yeah. I'm going to have to go back. For appearances." It was already bad enough that he decided to leave in the first place, but it was just too hot in the auditorium. And the atmosphere. There was something in the atmosphere that was too much to handle, and he didn't like that.

"Let's go then." Grabbing his hand forcefully, she pulls him along. Cato, with heavy feet, is dragged. She watches her perfect backside and the movement of her legs. When she looked back, Glimmer gave the most picture-perfect smile, and she was incandescent in the high sun. Her hands, which were surprisingly large with lithe fingers, nearly closed over his forearm, and her fingers felt good. None of that long-nail scratchy stuff. Her nails were painted lilac, and they were a little bitten down. Her hair blew past her face, covering her features in a perfect golden net.

When they return, Cato tells Glimmer to wait backstage as he sneaks back to his seat. Cato finds that the speeches are over. The headmaster makes one last announcement, and gives one last round of applause for the orators before dismissing everyone.

And there was Peeta.

Cato was about to go down and talk with some of his classmates, but Cato sees Peeta approaching him out of the side of his eye.

"That was really well done. You almost got me there!" Peeta sounds the same, on and off the podium. He sounds genuine, light-hearted, and almost promising. The inflection in his sentences was easy to pick out by ear, and his words strung out a melody that was very soothing, very convincing, and very melodious to the listener.

"Thanks. You too—you were pretty convincing." I give him a tight smile, because he truly was persuasive, and that made me uneasy. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth.

"So, I was thinking," here, Peeta clears his throat. "I was thinking that maybe we should go out for lunch some time? You know, as a friend thing."

No, Cato didn't know. For a moment, Cato loses his façade and he expresses confusion. Since when were they ever friends?

"We're this far into the campaign, and I don't want any hard feelings afterwards. What do you say? I'm free afterschool most of the time." Despite his cool countenance, Peeta fidgets with the bottom hem of his jacket.

"Well, Friday is fine, if that works for you?" Cato slides his hands into his pockets, and leans back ever so slightly. The cocky smile is in place.

"Yeah! Totally fine. This week, right after school? Where should we meet?" Peeta beams; his eyes are so bright, and why is he smiling so widely? Is that just a Peeta thing? Being extremely happy around everyone?

"How about the Mediterranean place downtown? It'll be on me." Of course Cato was going to pay, considering that restaurant was ridiculously expensive. "Wear something nice this Friday." With that, Cato gives a short laugh—his chuckle was so gruff that it sounded like a bark, really.

He brushes past Peeta, nearly knocking him over with his barrel-like stature. The glimpse of blonde hair beneath his shoulders suddenly reminded him that Glimmer was waiting, backstage.

Rushing back to the stage, Cato nearly forgets about Marvel, his vice president. To his surprise, Marvel was talking with Katniss, Peeta's vice president. What they were discussing, Cato honestly could not care less about. He quietly slips backstage.

Among the gloom and the play props, Cato saw Glimmer sitting on a table used for making backdrops. Dried paint splatters looked as if they were halted in the middle of their journey skittering across the table. Mod-podge crusted the sides, and chunks of hot glue created a whole new topography for the table. Paintbrushes were scattered like tarot cards, and empty tubes of paint were dejectedly resting underneath.

Still, Glimmer perched on it like it was some gold pedestal.

She bit her bottom lip gently. "You know what happens when a boy does a good job?"

Cato gives her a slow, lazy smile. "What?" Cato knew she was teasing, but he liked to play along.

"They get a kiss!" When Cato finally stood between her seated legs, Glimmer grabs the front of his shirt and slowly draws him in.

"You know what pretty boys like you get though?" Her voice is pure silk, but Cato knows what lies underneath all of that luxuriant seductiveness: a vise-like iron grip.

She doesn't say what. Cato's lips meet hers, and in an instant he feels her hands unbuttoning his shirt.

Glimmer's palms meet his hard chest, and run along the etched surface of his stomach. Cato's arms immediately go around her waist, up her shirt front, down her legs…

It didn't mean anything.

When you put two magnets together, north and south, night and day, black and white, you don't get something perfect. You get…grey. It was complicated.

They stopped when they felt like it. He buttoned his shirt again, she smoothed the crinkles in her clothes. It was the usual necking and heavy petting; obviously, they weren't going to fuck with five hundred plus people on the other side of the curtain.

Then, they both sat on the table again, side by side, smelling like lust and sweat, leaning back and gazing at the backdrop for this year's school play: a night sky. It was quite well done, actually. The dimness of the backstage definitely helped.

It was silent. Cato and Glimmer listened to the sound of rambunctious junior students file out the auditorium, until on a few voices were left on the other side of the curtain. Finally, it was quiet.

"Peeta might win. Aren't you scared of that?" Glimmer's voice lost its silky quality. She was casual now, almost callous.

"No. I'm going to win, and I know that for sure." Cato drums a little beat on the tabletop with his strong fingers. He looks up, gazing nonchalantly at was suppose to be the moon.

"Do you get scared when you get up on that podium? Did you see me in the front row giving you a thumbs up?" She turns to look at him. Cato was still looking at the starry night scene, so his face was in perfect profile.

"A little. And no, sorry." He turns too and gives her a small smile. It was complicated. Most things were grey for him, to be honest. Glimmer and he are friends. Friends with benefits? Cato might win this election, he might not. His father will either be exultant, or he'll be very, very disappointed. Cato wants to go to lunch with Peeta, he doesn't. Sometimes, he wished he could fade to the back of classroom. He wished he weren't the son of some wealthy rich bastard. He didn't ask to be built like some Olympic athlete. He never wanted blonde hair, or blue eyes, or any of this. It sounded bad, but really, he didn't.

"Don't you have Latin Club now?" Cato briefly pulls out his phone from his pocket to check the time. School ended just six minutes ago.

"It can wait. I'll stay for a few more minutes." She runs her hands through her hair, erasing the last traces of their makeout session. Cato shrugs.

"But really, the competition is close between you and Peeta. Really close."

Cato understood that, and for a brief moment he wished she'd shut up. Peeta is a charismatic bastard, that's all. Cato still has a few tricks up his sleeve. He'll pull in the votes, both from the student and faculty body.

Cato and Peeta had about a fifty-fifty following at the school. It was like a struggle between the haves and have-nots, the smart jocks and the dumb jocks, girls who dreamed about being in bed with Cato and girls who wanted to date Peeta. It was very close, and this made Cato very anxious.

"And so what if Peeta wins? What will you do?" She come onto him stridently, her voice suddenly forceful.

"Fuck _off._ I'm not letting him win. This whole campaign is mine." Instead of Glimmer going to Latin Club and leaving Cato behind, Cato leaves Glimmer sitting in the dark. All of a sudden, the scene painted on the thin piece of plywood looked very cheap and unappealing. Cato gets off the table and strolls to the exit without a word.

The door closes behind him with a soft exhale. He thinks about going to this alcove in the back of the library, where all of the outdated volumes of books are nestled. None of the idiots in this school ever go back there. In fact, Cato hasn't been in the library in a long, long time. He only found the alcove when some girl, who transferred a few months ago to another school, wanted to hook up with him back there.

The school is still very busy, even after school. Outdoor track is meeting in the hallways, and girl's lacrosse is toting equipment back and forth to take out to the fields. Debate team can actually be heard down a hallway, and Cato walks past some after school tutors. When he finally gets to the library, he's surprised by the _Not in Session _sign strung across the double doors. What the hell did that mean? That no librarians were around to help you? No one's allowed in? Since when did libraries have goddamn 'sessions'?

Cato brushes the sign out of the way of the door handle, and goes in. He's surprised at how quiet it is—it was like walking into some abandoned warehouse or something. More desolate than usual. But more so, he was surprised at how few people there were. In fact, _no one _was in here. Usually, there were librarians and students staying after school.

Cato, a little shaken, pads quietly through. He doesn't mind isolation though—he just wanted to pick up a few books and read something before heading home. It was stupid but, Cato felt bad for the dusty, falling-apart, musty glue-smelling books in the back of the library. They were interesting, but often overlooked by students looking for some unsatisfying, transient read.

He goes to the bookshelves, which almost reached the ceiling and were stuffed with books to the point where it was hard to wedge out a novel from the friction and compactness. It was ridiculous, in Cato's mind. The reason why there were so many books was not for the student's benefit. Hardly anyone checked out books in this library. This private school was just pretentious, caring only about maintaining a perfect façade.

As he gets closer to the alcove, he stops.

Cato cocks his head to one side, and listens.

It was coming from…the back of the library. Walking a little more quickly, Cato instinctively searches for the source of the sound.

Now slowly approaching the alcove, tucked away between the dense bookshelves, he begins to hear more clearly. Cato still couldn't pinpoint what it was exactly—until he got a little closer.

The sounds coming from the alcove were similar to those that came from Glimmer, when they fucked. Only they weren't the sounds of pleasure resonating from a female's throat—they were the primal moans of a man.

Cato nearly choked.

His alcove has been debased.

Still, Cato marches on to find _who _exactly was ruining his perfectly-fine-up-until-now hideaway spot.

He contemplated bursting onto the scene and giving those shits some hell, but when he slipped past one more bookcase, he almost tripped and fell.

He could hear his blood roaring past his ears, which was strange considering it felt like his heart and the muscles in his body were paralyzed.

Immediately, he knew he saw too much. It was a bad idea. Abort mission. Abort mission. But somehow, Cato couldn't move. He couldn't even avert his eyes, and his face started to burn up. Cato's stomach lurched and he started to break out in a sweat. There was a sense of fear, which was completely ridiculous—why should Cato be scared? Shouldn't it be the other way? The two men fucking in the alcove should be paranoid, but they were just…going at it.

Once Cato calmed down, pressing his back to the bookcase and regaining his composure, he finally opened up again. He opened his eyes, and saw the rows of books flitting before his eyes. His sense of smell suddenly returned to him, and he smelled glue, paper, new backpacks and pencil shavings. He recognized the bindings of books pressed between his shoulder blades and brushed up against his bare fingers. Most of all, his ears seemed to capture every sound in this silent library. Every rsutle of paper, every grunt, every groan, every dirty sound reverberating in the sanctity of the school library. Whispers hung in the air, the lewdness out of place.

_I loved seeing your cute little ass up there._

_You were so persuasive—looks like your tongue is good for more than sucking my cock._

_You like that, huh? Harder? You like it like that?_

Cato's throat suddenly went dry. He didn't want to, but his ears picked up on every sound.

And suddenly, Cato knew who it was.

Peeta. Mellark.


	3. Chapter 3

It was a surprise to Cato, no doubt. He did audibly gasp.

The question now was, is Peeta the one being fucked, or the one doing the fuck_ing_?

For a moment, he didn't dare look. To be honest, he was scared, He didn't want to know. He didn't want to see Peeta Mellark's bare ass too, for another thing.

His phone vibrated in his pocket a few times and for a moment Cato thought he was going to pass out right there and then, behind that bookshelf. He nearly jumped a foot off the ground and elbowed a few books.

When he pulled his phone out, Cato saw it was Marvel.

_M: Hey, we should meet up at my house sometime_

_M: for a game plan, ya know?_

_M: Peeta might win_

_M: so…how are we going to win this thing then?_

And slowly, a sinister smile spread across Cato's face.

Oh, he knew how to win this thing now.

Gripping his phone tightly, he now had the courage to face the alcove.

Even through all that god damn male grunting for the past few minutes, Cato was still shocked with what he saw.

Cato saw two men: one standing, the other bent over on a desk with his face turned away. That was when Cato got the answer to his first question: Peeta is the one being fucked. There's no way his hair could be mistaken for anyone else's.

Then, Cato realized who the other person was. And it shook him to his very bones. It was, in fact, the AP Lit teacher, Mr. Thread. His belt was undone, his crisply ironed pants pulled down ever so slightly. The arch of his nose was unforgiving. Thread's nose is so sharp and prominent that I knew I could not un-identify him. Simply put, it was Thread, and not a figure from my mind that could alleviate the intenseness of this coupling. This was shocking too, considering Thread was such a straight-laced person. And not to mention: a teacher is fucking Peeta. This could mean some serious shit.

For some reason, Cato couldn't tear his eyes away from the primal scene before him. He watched the muscles in Thread's ass contract, and then loosen. He watched the thick arm pinning Peeta down to the desk. Cato witnessed the contorted face of his English teacher, and saw how his lips, the same lips that recited Walt Whitman, James Joyce, and Walter Scott Fitzgerald, spew forth dirty words and whispers lascivious enough to even make Cato feel uncomfortable.

Most of all, Cato was unable to avert his eye's from Peeta's ass. It was strangely transfixing to see Thread thrust his hips, force his thick cock into Peeta, see Peeta jerk, and hear him moan. It was like a strange equation for pleasure, one that Cato was unable to figure out. Thrust equals pleasure. Cock pounding ass, pleasure. Thread to Peeta, pleasure. Peeta fucking Mellark being nailed in the ass by my English teacher. Pleasure.

But Cato was not here to see this act of two males fucking—he now has a different purpose. Silently, Cato holds up his phone, opens the camera, and begins to record.

It was a little sickening. Cato felt his stomach drop and his mouth suddenly went very dry. He didn't want to document this tryst. It felt like he was going where no other person should tread. But after ten seconds or so, he stopped recording and slipped his phone back into his pocket. Cato lets out a deep breath. What has to be done, has to be done. Before leaving, he gives the alcove one last look.

He was bummed that his secret hiding spot has now been found and eternally scarred for him.

But, digging a little deeper, he realized something he didn't want to fully comprehend before. It had to be acknowledged though.

Peeta Mellark likes it in the ass.

He is currently being fucked by another man, and he's thoroughly enjoying it.

Cato's mind was having a war trying to process that information. It was hard to put together this Peeta before him, mewling with a cock in his ass, with the Peeta on the podium just half an hour ago. It was hard to picture the Peeta that jovially asked him to lunch a few moments ago be dominated and pushed down onto a desk, roughly handled with. A few times Cato thought it couldn't be Peeta—after all, what business does he have with Mr. Thread? But the hair was unmistakable, and his clothes, which were pulled down to his knees or hiked up his back, gave everything away. Yes, it was Peeta Mellark bent over that desk in the back of the library.

Finally turning away from the scene behind him, Cato starts walking out. Only then does he realize how flustered he was, and how every muscle in his body was so tense. Pushing past the library doors, Cato tries to forget what he just saw. He couldn't, of course. Why Thread? Is Peeta gay? How long has this been going on?

The most important question though, was how this video tucked away in Cato's phone could exactly be utilized. Yes, Cato needed a game plan for Friday. Friday, which is now Peeta's doomsday.

After picking up his backpack from his locker, where he left it before going to his speech, Cato walks out to his car.

It was strange, definitely strange. Strange enough to the point that what he found out was almost life changing. For some reason, he couldn't get it out of his head, especially the sounds Peeta was making. There was something so _needy _in his voice, and it sounded like he wanted every inch of the dick he was taking. It wasn't cold outside, but Cato shivered.

Cato contemplated the situation a few moments more while sitting in his car. He wanted to watch the video, and yet he didn't. Without a sound, Cato starts the car, and drives home.


End file.
